


And To All A Good Night

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Episode: s03e08 A Very Supernatural Christmas, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-23
Updated: 2007-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:44:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's a little drunk.  Dean's sleepy.  There's cuddling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And To All A Good Night

Sam's a little drunk. It's late; the game ended some time ago, not that they were really watching it, and the TV's on low. Benny Hinn is exhorting his viewers to love their neighbours, turn the other cheek, and by the way a donation would be _awesome_ , thanks ever so. Spirit of the season and all that stuff. Sam hides a snicker behind his hand and looks at the mostly-empty bottle of Jack, the detritus of his eggnog efforts scattered over the kitchenette. Not a lot of Christmas spirits left now.

What the hell. Dean seemed to appreciate it, and that was the important thing.

He'd been a little nervous--okay, a _lot_ nervous--when Dean got back from his beer run. Sam's memories of Christmas were all about Dean making do for him, and the deep bitter burn of betrayal that Dad couldn't take _one day off_ to celebrate what was left of his family. Sometimes Sam had wanted to get up in his father's face and remind him that his sons hadn't died with Mary. The only thing that ever stopped him was Dean. Dean the peacemaker, Dean the negotiator. Dean, the heart and soul of the Winchester clan, the family man Dad was supposed to have been.

Sam sometimes thinks that if it'd been _Dean_ who'd left for college, he would've followed soon after. It still stings a little from time to time when he remembers Dean never tried to follow him. But he can't hold that against Dean anymore. It doesn't matter now. They don't have a lot of time left and he doesn't want to spend it bitching and moaning about what-ifs and might-have-beens.

Dean snorts a little, surfacing momentarily from his doze to focus on Sam, sliding bonelessly into Sam's shoulder. He'd moved from the chair some time ago, when their pizza was delivered, and hadn't bothered to shift again after they were done. Sam doesn't mind; Dean's weight is a reminder that he's still here, still kicking, and they're not out of the game yet.

"Whassat?" Dean murmurs, lolling shamelessly against him. Sam grins and manhandles Dean down until his head is pillowed in Sam's lap, knees drawn up awkwardly on the tiny couch.

"Nothin'," he replies. He rests one hand on Dean's chest. "Go back to sleep."

Dean mumbles something nonsensical and scrubs his head against Sam's leg for a second, eyes already closed again. Sam watches him drift back to sleep, waiting for his breaths to go deep and even before he lightly threads his other hand through Dean's hair.

"Not your last Christmas," he promises, feeling Dean's heart beat strong and sure beneath his palm. "Not by a long shot."

He dozes off himself then, easily, with everything he needs close to hand.

* * *

Some time later, there's a shift. Sam struggles back to consciousness enough to realise it's Dean's doing, hauling him up off the couch and three steps to the bed. Sam lets himself fall, Dean crashing next to him a second later, and he's too tired to care about anything except that Dean is still there.

He's slipping back under when he feels Dean fitting them together like a jigsaw puzzle, face into neck, arm over ribs, knee between thighs. He leans up a little so Dean can get his bottom arm under the pillow and then he's gone again, out like a light; one hand covering Dean's on his belly, fingers entwined.

* * *

Sam wakes up to a faceful of pillow hitting him square between the eyes. He groans and rolls over, turning his back to the daylight that wants to kill him via his aching eyeballs.

"Rise and shine, Sam." Dean sounds perversely cheerful. "Day's wasting."

"Fuck off," Sam grits out between clenched teeth. He's regretting the eggnog now. A _lot_.

"Come on, Sammy. A little hangover never killed anyone." Dean comes closer, and the smell of coffee reaches Sam's nostrils. "I've got caffeine," he says in a singsong voice.

Sam heaves a weighty sigh and forces himself upright, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Dean's fully dressed, lounging against the headboard of the other bed--the _still made_ bed, Sam realises--with what looks like a pint of coffee in his hand. He smirks at Sam, eyes crinkling with genuine good humour.

"Coffee," Sam rasps, reaching out. Dean raps his knuckles smartly and takes a sip, smacking his lips.

"I said _I've_ got coffee," he reminds Sam. "I never said anything about coffee for you."

Sam stares at him for a minute in disbelief, knuckles stinging, before Dean's smirk turns into a full-fledged grin and he chuckles, opening the topmost drawer of the nightstand.

"Fucker," Sam says succinctly, and dives into the coffee. "Give me back the motor oil. You don't deserve it."

"Nuh-uh. No takebacks on presents," Dean says. "Besides, I already used it to top up the car. Gonna have to put her in for a proper service soon, but it'll do for another couple hundred miles."

Sam grunts, conceding the point, and concentrates on the coffee. He doesn't say anything about the night before, and neither does Dean. The mussed up bed under him is the elephant in the room, but Sam's not willing to bring it up if it'll ruin Dean's mood. Let it ride, he thinks. It was a good way to end Christmas. If it _is_ Dean's last, he wants the memory to be a good one all the way through.

"Did you leave me any hot water?" he asks, rolling off the bed.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Dean grins again and raises an eyebrow when Sam sticks his tongue out. "Hurry up, I wanna hit the highway before someone finds those bodies."

"Yeah, yeah."

Sam rummages through his duffel for clean clothes and heads for the bathroom, hoping a ton of hot water will help ease the thumping pain in his head. He already knows he won't be eating breakfast; hangovers hit him in the stomach, apparently. He turns back at the doorway to look at Dean, because it wouldn't be fair for Sam to be suffering alone.

He stops short when he sees Dean looking at the bed, the one they slept in together. There's a look on Dean's face Sam's only seen a couple of times before. It's quiet, introspective; the corners of his mouth are tilted up in an almost-smile. He looks _contented_ , Sam realises. He looks _happy_.

Sam goes into the bathroom without a word, already making plans. He wants to see that look on Dean's face again, and soon.

END


End file.
